“Why should I? We were told to report all taps. We weren’t told to report refusals to make taps.”
“You’re quite right. Did you mention the name of Donahue at all in the statement?”
“No. What for?”
“Just so. You’re right again, of course. I’m sure you’ll agree, Mr. Amsel, that your contribution is even skimpier than Mr. Ide’s. I don’t know -”
The phone rang, and I went and got it. It was Lon Cohen. As I spoke with him, or rather, listened to him, Wolfe uncapped the second bottle of beer and poured. The guests were politely silent, as before. Again, after Lon had reported, he wanted the low-down, and I promised to supply him with an eight-column headline as soon as we got one. I asked him to hold on a minute and told Wolfe, “Alan Samuels is a retired broker, Wall Street. He could live on Park Avenue but prefers the Bronx. His wife died four years ago. He has two sons and two daughters, all married. He gives money to worthy causes, nothing spectacular. Harvard Club. Director of the Ethical Culture Society. A year ago the governor appointed him a member of the Charity Funds Investigating Committee. I’ve got more, but it’s not very exciting. Of course you note the item that might possibly be interesting.”
“Yes. He’s still on? Get the names of the members of that committee.”
“Right.” I went back to Lon. He said he’d have to send to the files, and did so, and then demanded some dope. I couldn’t very well tell him that the other suspects were there in our room and Wolfe was doing his damnedest to find a crack to start a wedge in, so I gave him a human interest story about Nero Wolfe’s behavior in the jug and other little sidelights. The list came, and he read it off while I wrote it down, and I told him not to expect the headline in time for the morning edition. I tore the sheet off of the memo pad and went and handed it to Wolfe, telling him, “That’s it. Just five members, including the chairman.”
He looked it over. He grunted. He looked at the guests. “Well. You may remember, from my statement, that Otis Ross is the chairman of the Charity Funds Investigating Committee. You have just heard that Alan Samuels is a member of that committee. So is Arthur M. Leggett. The names of the other two members are James P. Finch and Philip Maresco. It’s a pity we have only three out of five. If it were unanimous it would be more than suggestive, it would be conclusive. Can you help us, Mr. Ide?”
Ide was looking uncomfortable. He pinched the skin over his Adam’s apple, but that didn’t seem to help, and he tried chewing on his lower lip, but since his teeth were a brownish yellow it didn’t make him any handsomer. He spoke. “I said I wouldn’t drag his name into this, but now it
“That makes four. Is there any point in leaving it to conjecture whether it was Finch or Maresco?”
“No. Finch.”
Wolfe nodded. “That leaves only Maresco, and I hope he wasn’t slighted. Mr. Amsel. Doesn’t that name, Philip Maresco, strike a chord in your memory? At least a faint echo?”
Amsel grinned at him. “Nothing doing, Wolfe. My memory’s gone very bad. But if you want my advice, just forget my memory. It’s a cinch. If I was you I’d just take it for granted.”
“Very well put. Satisfactory. Do you think it possible, ladies and gentlemen, that it was through coincidence that the five men whose wires Donahue wanted tapped were all members of that committee?”
They didn’t think so.
“Neither do I. Surely it invites inquiry. Miss Bonner, how many competent operatives, not counting Miss Colt, are immediately available to you?”
She was startled. “Why… you mean now? Tonight?”
“Tonight or in the morning. What time is it, Archie?”
“Quarter past eleven.”
“Then the morning will have to do. How many?”
She considered, rubbing her lip with a fingertip. I admit there was nothing wrong with her lips and she had good hands. “On my payroll,” she said, “one woman and two men. Besides them, four women and three men whom I use occasionally.”
“That makes ten. Mr. Ide?”
“What’s this for?” Ide wanted to know.
“I’ll explain. Now just how many.”
“It depends on your definition of ‘competent.’ I have twelve good men on my staff. Eight or ten others might be available.”
“Say twenty. That makes thirty. Mr. Kerr?”
“Call it nine. For an emergency I could scare up maybe five more, maybe six.”
“Fifteen. That makes forty-five. Mr. Amsel?”
“I pass.”
“None at all?”
“Well, I might. I’ve got no payroll and no staff. Wait till I hear the pitch, and I might.”
“Then forty-five.” Abruptly Wolfe got to his feet. “Now, if you’ll permit me, I must arrange my mind. It shouldn’t take long. I beg you to stay, all of you, to hear a suggestion I want to offer. And you must be thirsty. For me, Archie, a bottle of beer.”
He moved his chair over near a window, turned it around, and sat, his back to the room.
